Forever Spring (11 page)

The table was placed directly before a wide, undraped window that afforded a spectacular view of the gently rolling countryside. Red, orange, rust and splashes of green dazzled the eyes of any and all beholders. Karen lowered her gaze to the linen-covered tabletop.

“We must talk.”

Karen’s fingers clenched on the small luncheon menu the hostess had placed in front of her. Paul had said exactly the same words to her that morning as they’d stood drinking a cup of coffee at the kitchen counter. He had repeated the words as they’d stood at the rear of her car after loading her luggage into the small trunk. Now, as she had earlier, Karen shook her head.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Absently moving her left hand, she stroked one finger the length of the tines of her fork. “You’re going home. I’m going to Boston. End of story.”

“No, dammit! That’s not the—Karen!” His tone, which had been sharp with annoyance, softened with concern at her involuntary gasp. Karen had pierced the tip of her finger with the tine.

Karen dismissed his concern with a shrug as she stared dispassionately at a tiny drop of blood. “It’s nothing.” Her right hand was groping for a napkin when Paul grasped her left hand and drew the injured finger to his lips. The touch of his lips against her skin was excruciating; the flick of his tongue against the tiny puncture was devastating and threatened to undo Karen’s precious store of composure.

“Paul, please don’t,” she protested in a strangled tone, tugging her hand back. His hold on her tightened.

“God, Karen, don’t look at me like that.” His breath misted her flesh, and the agonized sound of his voice misted her thoughts.

“Like—like what?” Karen could barely speak for the thickness in her throat.

“Like...” Paul lowered his eyes as he turned her hand, exposing her palm to his lips. “Like you’ve been dealt a killing blow.” He reverently touched his mouth to her palm.

Karen felt his kiss like a stiletto thrust to her heart. She tugged reflexively against his grip. Paul began to raise his eyes at her action. His eyes flickered and widened as his gaze noted a crescent-shaped bruise on the inside of her wrist. His curse was all the more shocking for the very softness of it.

“I’ve marked you.” His gaze seared the bruise. “And I’ve hurt you—” his breath shuddered from his body “—in so many ways.” His lips bestowed a quivering blessing on the mark. “I’m sorry, Karen. I never meant to hurt you in any way.”

“I know.” Karen had to pause to swallow, to breathe, to absorb the tremors racing up her arm from her wrist.

While she hesitated, Paul glanced up. His night-black eyes betrayed regret, resignation. “I don’t want to leave you here like this.” His grip on her wrist tightened as a shiver moved through her body. “Karen, let me follow you into Boston.” His voice was rough with strain.

“No!” Karen shook her head and pulled her hand from his grasp. A vision rose to torment her mind, an image of herself attempting to explain Paul’s presence to her sons. Mark, her baby, was still young enough at thirteen to accept as fact whatever his mother told him. But her eldest had developed into a very savvy fifteen-year-old. Rand would immediately identify and disdain the relationship between his mother and a man other than his father. “No,” she repeated, drowning in a fresh flood of guilt and shame. “It’s impossible.”

“It’s not impossible. Nothing—” He stopped speaking as a young waitress approached the table to take their order. Paul cursed under his breath and snatched up the menu.

Karen lowered her gaze to the cardboard that was quivering suspiciously in her hand. But her reprieve was short-lived. Paul resumed the argument the instant the waitress moved on to another table. Karen had already forgotten what she’d ordered.

“Karen, I can wait in a hotel. You can’t be expected to spend every waking hour with your sons or cooling your heels in a hospital.” Lines of tension scored his face, revealing his frustration and, for the first time since she’d met him, his age.

“No, Paul.” Karen rushed the refusal, too tempted to give in to his suggestion. “I’d have to explain...”

The expression in the eyes she raised to his was stark, reflecting her inner conflict. She took a breath before continuing. “I’d have to explain to my boys, Charles, his parents. How could I make them understand something I don’t understand myself, about myself?”

“You’re a mature woman, Karen!” Paul exclaimed softly. “Except for the possibility of your children, you don’t owe explanations to anyone.” His voice lowered dangerously. “Least of all to that—”

“Paul!” Karen’s shocked voice cut across his low snarl. She glanced around quickly to see if he’d been overheard. Their nearest neighbors, a middle-aged foursome, were busily discussing the merits of the menu, quite oblivious to the drama close at hand. “Name-calling solves nothing! Don’t you understand? I
can’t
continue. It’s impossible.”

Paul’s eyes gleamed with a mounting anger that masked a sense of desperation. “And I’m telling you nothing’s impossible, not if you want it badly enough.” His tone hardened. “And I want it badly, Karen. You’ll probably never know how very badly I want it.”

Want.
The single word hammered inside Karen’s mind while the waitress served the meal.
Want.
The echo of it mocked her throughout the ordeal of making believe she was eating the sandwich she couldn’t remember ordering and didn’t taste even as she consumed it.
Want.
Dammit! It was the wanting that had placed her in this untenable hell of guilt in the first place.

He had wanted. She had wanted. And because they had appeased their wants with one another, she was now suffering the pain of self-doubt and shame.

“Karen, we need to talk,” Paul said urgently as she placed her empty coffee cup on its delicate saucer. “Let me follow you. Meet with me in Boston. I’ll give you my word that I won’t touch you. I’ll give you all the time you need to sort out your feelings. But let’s at least talk it out. I want to explain...”

Karen had had it with the word “want.” Pushing her chair back, she surged to her feet and hurried from the restaurant. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to never hear the word
want
again for as long as she lived.

Paul caught up to her as she was fumbling to unlock her car. He didn’t try to restrain her. At least, not physically. The soft urgency of his tone was restraint in itself.

“You’re going to throw it away, aren’t you?”

At the end of her patience, pulled off balance by conflicting needs and emotions, Karen turned on him, lashing out.

“Throw all
what
away?” she demanded, angry and scared. “We don’t know each other. We don’t even know if we like one another! We felt an attraction, a highly combustible chemical attraction, and we both responded to it.” Her shoulders drooped. “But now it’s time for reality.” Karen forced herself to look at him. “You have a family, a life in Philadelphia. And I have two boys who may be facing the possibility of losing their father. I think someone once said that when reality walks in the door, sensuality flies out the window. The window is open, Paul. The time for flight is now.”

“It’s not true.” Paul smiled faintly as she began to frown. “I do know that I like you. You are very easy to like.”

For one fleeting instant, Karen’s smile rivaled the brilliance of the sun-sparkled day. Then it was gone, as was the light of hope that had sprung to life in Paul’s eyes. Obeying an impulse, she reached out to touch him. Then, just as quickly, she withdrew her hand.

“I like you, too.” Her smile had the power to break a cynic’s heart. “You’re bossy as hell, but I like you, Paul Vanzant.”

“Karen.” He moved toward her, but she was faster, opening the door and slipping behind the wheel.

“I must go,” she said, her voice edged with desperation. “They’re expecting me.” She bit her lip, then looked up at him. “I’ll never forget you. Goodbye, Paul.” She pulled the door closed between them.

“Karen!”

The sound of the engine roaring to life muffled his cry of protest. Throwing the car into reverse, she backed the vehicle away from him. Again she hesitated, staring at him as if unable to tear her eyes away. Then she spun the wheel. Tires screeched, and the car shot forward. Karen heard Paul’s angry voice through the closed window.

“Damn you, Karen!”

“Will Dad be all right, Mom?”

Stifling a sigh, Karen managed a patient smile instead. It was at least the dozenth time her youngest son had asked that same question.

“I don’t know, honey,” Karen answered honestly. “Grandma didn’t know when I spoke to her. It was too soon after the attack. But hopefully by the time we reach Boston the doctors will have more information for us.”

“I don’t want Dad to die, Mom.” Fear reduced Mark’s voice to that of a very young child’s.

“Oh, honey.” Karen reached across the seat to grasp the boy’s hand. “I know. I know.” Understanding and compassion clenched at her chest. “Try not to think about it.” Karen hated being reduced to trite, inane motherly platitudes, but as a mother, what option did she have? “Just hope, and pray, and—”

“Dad’s not going to die, ya nerd.” The jeer of disgust came from the half boy, half man sprawled on the back seat.

“Rand,” Karen murmured warningly, capturing his reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Well, does he hafta whine and talk so dumb?” Rand argued defensively.

“But I’m scared!” Mark sniffled. “What will we do ifhe—”

“Will ya stuff it?” Rand’s voice rose, then cracked.

“Randolf!”

“Aw, Mom!” The boy glared into the mirror at her for a moment, then quickly lowered his gaze. Rand was not quick enough to hide the sheen of tears in his eyes.

Karen’s fingers contracted around the abused steering wheel. Rand was every bit as frightened as

Mark was; his belligerence was a ruse to conceal his fear and uncertainty. Karen longed to comfort both boys, reassure them, soothe them as she had when they had been small and had run to her with scrapes and bruises. If only she could hug them and kiss them and make it better, she thought, feeling suddenly inadequate and unequal to the task before her.

Without conscious direction, Karen’s gaze sought the mirror, not to seek the wounded eyes of her son but to study the highway unwinding behind her. There were all types of vehicles jockeying for position on the multilane highway, but not one of them was painted a midnight blue.

A man is never there when you really need him,
she told herself, her throat working to ease a growing tightness.

With her youngest son weeping softly on the seat beside her and her eldest alternately yelling at him, then pleading with him to “bag it,” Karen was much too upset and distracted to consider the incongruity of her blanket condemnation of men, most particularly the man she had refused to have there when she needed him. She was hurting on more levels than she’d ever realized there were. She was tired. She felt alone, really alone, for the first time in her adult life. She felt too close to the edge of defeat. She was beginning to get frightened, and beginning to question her ability to cope with the traumatic effect on her sons in the event Charles succumbed to the heart attack.

He can’t diel The protest rang inside her head, accompanied by one boy’s sobs and another boy’s muttered imprecations. Damn you, Charles Mitchell, don’t you dare die!

Karen’s glance flicked to the mirror.

Oh, God, Paul, where are you?

Where was she now? Nearing Boston? In Boston? Perhaps already at the hospital—with Charles?

Paul grunted in self-disgust and sliced a resentful glance at his wristwatch. He had promised himself he would not think about her. He had warned himself he could not afford to think about her. He had failed miserably to keep his promise.

How had her sons reacted to the news about their father?
Paul sighed. Karen’s boys were another subject he had vowed not to consider. But dammit! he said to himself, he was a parent, too! He had raised a son through the difficult teenage years. He knew firsthand how very deeply children felt about all kinds of things, important and mundane. They would be a handful for her, Paul decided, his tight lips smoothing into a gentle smile of reminiscence. Hell, children were usually a handful, even on the best of days!

She should have support.

The tightness was back, flattening his lips. He should be with her. He had wanted to be with her. He still wanted to be there for her.

Where
was
she now?

With favorable driving conditions, Karen could be in the city and at the hospital by now. Was the bas— Paul cut his thought short. Had Charles Mitchell’s condition improved at all? Paul sincerely hoped so. He hoped so for the boys’ sake. He hoped so for Karen’s sake. And, not even sure why, he hoped so for his own sake.

He missed her. It had been only a matter of hours since she’d left him breathing in the exhaust fumes from her car as she’d roared out of the parking lot, and yet he missed her like hell on fire. Paul exhaled heavily. With his control on his mental responses undermined, memories of the previous night rushed to the fore to tease his senses and torment his body.

Lord! Had he really behaved like that, all macho and masterful? The mere concept boggled his mind. Never, never before in his life, had Paul displayed such aroused heat or such vigor! And damn him if he hadn’t reveled in every second of the display.

Paul’s thigh muscles grew taut; he shifted on the leather seat. How, he wondered, was Karen feeling about her own responses and participation in the previous night’s activities? She’d refused to discuss it that morning, had in fact shied away from even looking directly at him until they had stopped for lunch. Paul grimaced. Had he succeeded in adding more selfdoubt and guilt to her overscrupulous conscience? He fervently hoped not, yet feared he had.

Paul’s spirit flagged. He had an empty feeling that warned him he’d be missing Karen Mitchell for a long time to come.

Karen greeted the usual tangle of midafternoon traffic in Boston with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Her spirit felt battered from having to constantly comfort her sons.